The constant knocking on the door woke her up from her
afternoon siesta. She wasn’t expecting anybody not that she was frequently
visited. She’d lived alone all these years in that big house. She was always worried
that someone would harm her. Her husband was dead and soon after their only son
had disappeared overnight in chase of his dreams. She’d only hope that he was
alive. She held on to the walking stick, hoping that it would help her defend
herself also. “Who’s it?”, she asked. “It is me, Mom” answered a voice as she
peered through the peephole.